HOUND
by btch sprinkles
Summary: Set in the Killer in Pink Universe- The pair take a case from a young man, Henry Knight, after his story about a great Hound that murdered his father. While there, Sherlock pushes John away, and nearly into the arms of the traumatized young man. John fights for his relationship, while trying to help Henry Knight overcome his demons. Retelling of Hounds of Baskerville SH/JW


**So I was intending on writing the Irene Adler episode, but caught myself stuck with an idea that wouldn't leave after watching Hounds of Baskerville. I'll probably do a re-telling of all six episodes eventually, so forgive me for them being so out of order. Not sure how long the next installment will be, but regardless I hope you enjoy this! Thanks so much.**

He'd started out the day in a great mood, John Watson. The house was quiet when he woke, Sherlock had gone off on some case he wouldn't have been any help on, so he was free to muck about without fear of disturbing Sherlock, which posed the risk of sending the increasingly bored detective into a childish tantrum, ruining John's day.

This afternoon, John found himself sitting on the sofa, working his way through his newest text to speech software on his laptop, his recently acquired guide dog sitting at his feet. The dog, which Sherlock insisted on calling Loki, despite the dog already having had a name, and despite John's hesitation on calling a dog after the God of mischief, was an obscenely large German Shepherd. It was big for his breed, coming nearly to John's chest at the head, but was quite possibly the smartest dog John had ever come into contact with.

The extensive training John was preparing to face in using a guide dog, especially alone in London, was overwhelming until John met the dog and realized that he could actually do this. He could get this, he could use the dog, and while the cane was helpful in places Loki couldn't go, meaning most of the crime scenes, so nearly all of their cases, with Loki, John felt free again.

And Frankly, Loki was a great dog when he wasn't working. Unharnessed, he was lazy and happy and preferred to be at John's feet being pet and loved on. Sherlock, who wasn't exactly an animal lover, had to acquiesce that Loki was livable, and even, at times, nice to have around.

So yes, John was having a rather lovely day that day... that was, until Sherlock burst through the door, right were John was standing, and accidentally impaled the man through the forearm with a gigantic harpoon.

Twenty minutes later found John sitting on the sofa, bandaged, grumbling at the pain, while Sherlock was getting massive amounts of pig's blood washed from his hair and body. Mrs Hudson stood by, making sure John didn't need a hospital, which he probably did but he refused, and eventually took her leave when Sherlock emerged from the shower with nothing on except a rather loose hanging towel.

"Oh my goodness, Sherlock," she muttered, hand over her mouth, and she scampered down the stairs.

John snorted and shook his head. "Are you naked?"

"Not completely," Sherlock said as he plopped down in the chair across from John. "Your arm? Is it alright?"

"I'll live, but I'd rather not go through that again," John said, tugging at the bandages and wincing. "Do I want to know why you took the tube covered in blood, carrying a massive harpoon?"

"None of the cabs would take me," Sherlock muttered.

The next hour, John went back to the blog, and Sherlock went from idle pacing to nearly frantic searching the flat for his emergency cigarettes as John was making him go cold turkey, and Sherlock wasn't enjoying that at all.

Since the cold-turkey decision, John had gotten no physical affection or attention, and relatively little sleep. Still, it had been two weeks since Sherlock had lit one up, and John was determined to break him of the habit.

Right now, however, with the muttering and pacing and John hearing piles of books and papers littering the floor near by, he was tempted to lift the skull and produce the pack. John was certain it was Sherlock's way of giving him an ultimatum, 'give me the cigarettes or I'll make sure you break your neck,' but John wouldn't be swayed.

The temptation rose and rose until the buzzer sounded and before long a timid young man was sitting on the sofa, a video documentary of Baskerville on the telly playing mainly for Sherlock's benefit.

After a while, Sherlock switched off the video and turned to the man. "What did you see that night?"

"Well the video-"

"I prefer to do my own interviews," Sherlock snapped.

The young man launched into a story of the moors and murder. His father had been part of an experiment team at Baskerville and suffered a brutal death at the jaws and claws of a massive monster that still haunted the man to this day.

John did his best to be understanding while Sherlock showed off, telling the man everything he'd done that morning from his train ride, to his breakfast, to his desperation for a cigarette.

"Don't give him one," John insisted as Sherlock commanded the young man to light up. "Henry, I'm serious."

"I'm not going to smoke," Sherlock snapped at John, but proceeded to breathe in directly in Henry's face as the boy lit up and blew out large puffs of white smoke.

Satisfied, Sherlock sat back, listened to the rest of his story and then declared it, "Boring. You may go, but thank you for smoking."

"Sherlock-" John started.

It was at this moment that Loki decided to emerge from his afternoon nap and amble into the room, giving a great yawn with a little whine at the end. John smiled, but poor Henry Knight jumped out of his chair, giving a shout that startled even Sherlock.

"The hound! Oh god... the moor..."

Sherlock froze, his arm steadying itself on John's shoulder who was still sitting, and John squinted up at Sherlock, staring at the outline of him.

"What did you say?" Sherlock demanded.

"This is just my guide dog," John said, talking over Sherlock, trying to use soothing tones to the man who was near hyperventilating.

"Guide dog?" Henry croaked out.

"Yes," John said, holding his hand out for Loki, who approached slowly and quietly. "I'm blind, you see, and this is my guide dog. Perfectly docile and quite nice."

"I um... I didn't realize you were um... I'm sorry," Henry stuttered.

"Perfectly fine," John said.

Sherlock, who was not prepared to let anything go, pressed his hand down on John's shoulder to silence him. "What did you call the dog?"

"A um... hound. Like the one who attacked and killed my father on the moor. As I said before, when I was there last night, the footprints, they were there, the footprints of a massive hound."

And then with a flourish, Sherlock demanded that they take the case, and that was that. John found himself standing outside with Henry waiting for the young man's cab.

"I'm quite sorry about Sherlock. I'd say he means well, but that would be a lie most of the time," John said.

Henry gave a small laugh. "I've read some of your blog, Dr Watson, I wasn't expecting anything special. I'm just... I'm a huge fan and I feel as though if anyone can help me, he can. And you, of course."

"Not a lot of good I do most days, but thank you," John said with a smile.

"I guess I never knew from the um... from the blog that you were er... you know..."

"Blind?" John offered and he smiled at Henry's embarrassed laugh. "I suppose most of the time it's not relevant."

Henry shoved his hands into his pockets as the cab pulled up and John opened up the door for him. "Are you and Sherlock a couple?" The question was blurted out, and nervous.

John sighed and squinted up at the building he and Sherlock shared together. "Sometimes I think yes, sometimes, no. He's not an easy man to get along with, Henry."

"I um... well... bye Dr Watson," Henry said, clearly keeping something back, and got into the cab. There was a pause, and then the car drove off and John headed back inside.

Sherlock was packing, though his version of packing often meant throwing all of their things into a suit case, sitting on it, and zipping it shut. It often left John with missing socks, pants, mismatched shirts and trousers, and clothes not suited for the weather.

"Do you mind taking care with my things," John asked as he stepped into the room.

Sherlock's movements paused. "Did he give you his number?"

John frowned. "Did who give me what number?"

"Henry Knight, John," Sherlock said and began his frantic packing once again. "The boy could hardly take his eyes off you, though I expect you didn't notice. For a moment I thought he might try and kiss you before he got into the cab. Did he give you his number?"

John's cheeks pinked. "No, though I expect he gave it to you, since he's employing us. I hardly think he was interested in me, Sherlock, and it doesn't really matter."

"Why doesn't it matter? You've been complainingly loudly enough how I don't give you the attention you deserve."

John crossed his arms, his eyes narrow. "I never said that."

"You didn't need to," Sherlock bit, as he zipped the case shut and dropped it to the floor with a loud thud.

"Is that guilt talking?" John demanded as Sherlock breezed past him, grabbing up his coat and scarf. "Do you feel guilty?"

"Hardly," Sherlock said. "The car's arrived. Best leave Loki here, I doubt he'll be very welcome on a military animal research site. Grab your cane, let's go." With that, Sherlock bounded down the stairs, leaving John with the case and a heavy head wondering, as he did from time to time, why he stuck around through all of that.

The ride to the facility was longer than John would have preferred, but getting out of the city and into the country air was refreshing. Even the heavy smell of sheep, which usually bothered John, was a relief from the heavy smells of cars and people and food in the London streets.

They made their way to the small pub, vegetarian, Sherlock told John as they walked inside. John had his cane tucked into his coat pocket, and his arm on Sherlock's as they approached the bar.

"Just order yourself a pint," Sherlock said. "I'm going to check out a few things."

"Afternoon," the man behind the bar said as Sherlock detached from John and went outside.

"Pint for me, please," John said, knowing the beer would be more than helpful with Sherlock's poor attitude and John's increasing loneliness. "And a basket of chips, if you've got them."

"Would you like a menu?"

"Ah, no," John said, and tapped the side of his temple. "Blind as a bat, not much help. Anything that compliments the beer will do me."

"Chips it is," the man said, and pushed the full pint glass against John's knuckles that were resting on the bar. "Back in a mo'." John sipped the beer and heard the man call for the food before walking back out. "Tourists, are you?"

"Just a short holiday, some exploring," John said. "What about this hound business, eh? You've seen him?"

"No, though looks like your fellow out there is talking to the one man who has," the barkeep said. "He takes folks on up to the moor for a glimpse of the beast. We've got a lot of curious ones out here now that they seen us on the telly." The man chuckled a little. "Hoping for a close encounter yourself?"

"Never say no to a bit of adventure," John said with a grin.

A second man brought out the basket of chips and pushed them across the counter to John. "Fresh of the fryer, mate."

"Ta," John said and nibbled on a chip.

"How long you folks staying?" the second man asked.

"Oh as long as it takes until he's satisfied," John said, nodding towards the sound of Sherlock's voice.

"Ah, sounds a bit like mine," the second man said and John could hear the smile in his voice.

Grabbing up the pint and balancing the chips on his arm, John drew out his cane and made his way outside. He followed the sound of Sherlock's voice, elevated and irritated, and found Sherlock sitting at a small table.

"Are you having a row with the locals already?" John demanded as he tucked in to the food. "I thought we were trying to stay inconspicuous."

"They're impossible," Sherlock snapped. "You keep eating like that and you're going to put on weight."

"Shut up," John snapped and continued on to his chips and beer. "Do you have a plan? Or are we just banging around town until you uncover something?"

"We're going into Baskerville once you've finished clogging your arteries," Sherlock said, an edge to his voice that John knew was there when Sherlock wanted to make him angry.

"The Military research facility? So what, we're just going to stroll in, are we? As for a guided tour?" John was getting angry at Sherlock's attitude, and the way Sherlock was trying to push him away, and it was showing in his clipped, sarcastic words.

"We're going to break in," was Sherlock's response, and John could literally hear the mischievous smile in the words.

An hour later found the pair on the road to Baskerville. It was a long, winding road that was uncomfortable to drive on for John, who deeply disliked being thrown from side to side over huge bumps of mud and potholes.

At one point, he was thrown over, and when he steadied himself on Sherlock's arm, Sherlock wrenched himself away. "Don't," he said sharply.

John felt his face flare up with heat, and he leaned against the door. "Stop the car, Sherlock."

Sherlock complied, though he kept the car in gear, and with his foot on the brake, he crossed his arms. "What is it?"

"You've been acting strangely for some time now, and I refuse to go a step further with you until you tell me what the hell is going on," John demanded, facing Sherlock, squinting to see as much of the man as was possible. "Have I done something wrong? Are you tired of me? Is the great Sherlock Holmes, bored of the world, bored of his lover as well?"

There was a pregnant pause, and John thought he could probably cut the tension between them with a knife. He heard Sherlock shift, and then a small, barely audible sigh.

"This isn't working, John."

"What isn't working?" John asked, though he knew exactly what Sherlock meant, and he fought to stamp down on his panic.

"This... relationship," Sherlock said, sneering the word. "I'm constantly worried now, if something I'm doing is offending you, or bothering you, or upsetting you. I'm finding myself actually concerned about your happiness, and it's distracting."

"Ah," was all John could say, and to him his own voice sounded so far away.

"You deserve a person who wants to be filled with concern over your well-being, John," Sherlock continued. "A person who has caring in their very nature, not someone who has to work at it, someone who gets angry at it. I'm no good at this relationship rubbish."

John composed himself as best he could. They were on a case, an important one, and were about to break into a Military research facility. It was no time and no place for a split, nor was it the time and place for a total break-down, which John thought he might have if Sherlock actually chucked him.

"We're working, and yes I realize that I demanded that you tell me what's wrong, so I take responsibility for that," John said, trying to sound much calmer than he was. "Obviously we need to talk before calling it over, and this is not the place for that."

"Right," Sherlock said tersely and started to shift the car into gear.

John reached out and stayed Sherlock's hand with his, and didn't let the detective pull away this time. "Just remember something, Sherlock. I'm not with you because I thought you'd be different. I don't love you because you spend time trying to make me happy. I never thought, never wanted, you to change for me. I love you because of who you are, as aggravating, infuriating, and frustrating as you can be. So please just... remember that, okay?"

John felt Sherlock's normally cold hand heat up under his touch, and this time, when Sherlock pulled away, it was gentle, without anger or malice. John crossed his arms and leaned his head against the cool window as they finished the trek out to the facility.

Truth be told, John was in an utter panic at the thought of losing Sherlock, and had they not been on a case, John might have had a total break-down right there. But, before John could really think on it, the car came to a stop and Sherlock rolled his window down.

"I hope you have a plan," John muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"I do. I've been keeping some clearance in my pocket, should we ever need it," Sherlock said. A man came to the window, asked for identification, and just when John thought they were to be thrown out and possibly arrested, they were waved on.

"Oh let me guess, Mycroft's ID?" John said, putting two and two together.

"As I said before, he practically is the British government," Sherlock responded. Sherlock parked the car, but as John reached into his coat pocket for his cane, Sherlock stayed his hand. "Leave it. We're impersonating government officials, which being former military, I expect you'll be good at, but it's hardly likely that any of the higher ups are going to be nearly blind, walking round with a white cane. Stick close to me, but John, I'm counting on you to be as clever as you've ever been. We've likely got about twenty minutes before someone realizes we're not who we say we are, so what I'm really asking you now is, can you do it?"

"Are you doubting me?" John asked, and as he turned his face to Sherlock, though he was really just guessing, he was looking directly into Sherlock's eyes.

"Never," Sherlock said, smiled, and got out of the car.

Inside, John was trembling. Clever? Yes, he could be quite clever, but he wasn't sure he could be this clever. Somehow, though, it felt as if his relationship with this man he was impossibly in love with was on the line. He felt as though if he couldn't pull this off, the moment he got home, he would be packing his bags, even if he was only moving back into the second room.

John got out of the car and strained his ears, keeping his eyes as open as he could without looking conspicuous. He found Sherlock and walked to his side, his steps looking far more confident than they were.

Sherlock let his elbow casually rest against John's, which caused the doctor to breathe a rather large sigh of relief. A soldier approached, John could tell by the way his feet sounded on the ground as he walked.

He demanded identification, and after Sherlock had provided Mycroft's card, John ended up doing something he hadn't expected to ever do again in his life; he pulled rank. He ripped out his ID, he saluted the soldier and then said, "That's an order."

They were walking into the building when John heard Sherlock chuckle. "Pulling rank?"

"Never expected to do that again, honestly," John muttered.

"How did it feel?"

"Quite good," John grinned.

They entered the building, John keeping himself oriented by the bright lights on the wall and the brush of Sherlock's arm against his. They were brought into a room where Sherlock did most of the talking, and John did his best to keep upright, face front, eyes open, and tried to remember the mannerisms of a person who used their eyes to perceive the world instead of their ears, nose and fingers.

It all went quite well, even when Sherlock nearly accosted a woman about a rabbit, and even when they were confronted with a rather eccentric researcher who seemed a little too excited and friendly.

John only nearly panicked when the alarms shot off after Sherlock declared that they had been there long enough. John thought perhaps he'd done something wrong, until the soldier escorting them around declared that the ID Sherlock had was false.

It was that friendly doctor again, however, that saved them and escorted them out. A Dr Franklyn, and he knew exactly who they were. "This is about Henry, is it?" he asked as they stepped outside.

Sherlock and John both paused. "We've been hired on by Mr Knight to investigate the death of his father."

"I knew the boy wanted help, I just didn't realize he'd go all the way to Sherlock Holmes for it," he said and then chuckled at John's frown. "Oh yes, I know who you both are. I'm nearly never off your website or blog."

"What exactly do you do here, Dr Franklyn?" Sherlock asked in a low tone.

"Oh I would tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," he said, and the laugh he gave had a sharp, almost threatening edge to it.

"That would be quite ambitious of you," Sherlock replied, his arm tensing under John's hand.

"Let me give you my cell number, and you can call me if you have any questions," the doctor said after a moment, and handed Sherlock a card. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you boys around town."

"Indeed," Sherlock said and with that, he took John's arm and they went back to the car. They got in and Sherlock started up the engine but didn't move. "Well?"

"Well what?" John asked, his adrenaline just barely starting to calm down after the alarms.

"Dr Franklyn, what did you think?"

John frowned. "Not being entirely forthcoming. I think we need to investigate further."

"I think we need to pay Henry a visit."

The pair stood on Henry's doorstep, John twiddling the top of his cane nervously, though he wasn't entirely sure why he was so nervous. Sherlock was still being a bit distant and cold with him, but he was doing his best not to think on it. It wasn't a problem for here, it was a problem for home, and John had to try to separate this from work.

Henry let them in, sounding pleased to see them, and immediately offered them tea or coffee. Sherlock accepted the offer of coffee while John took a seat at on a stool, listening to the sounds of Henry around the kitchen, and the subtle clink of a spoon as Sherlock stirred two sugars into his drink.

"We've visited Baskerville," Sherlock said after he took a long swallow of the hot brew. "We haven't come up with much. Is there any other information you have for us?"

"Just... in my nightmares, I've been seeing new things, new words," Henry said, his voice trembling slightly. "Liberty... Liberty and In."

"Liberty In?" John repeated.

"Is that it?" Sherlock demanded.

Henry gave a little affirmative noise but said nothing. John could hear, though, the tremble in the man's hands in the clinking of the dishes he put in the sink.

"Henry, try not to worry. Sherlock has a plan... don't you?"

"Mmm," Sherlock said through a mouthful of coffee. "Yes, yes I do. My plan is to go down to the moor tonight and see where the beast lives."

Henry choked. "The moor at night?"

"What better way to see what we're dealing with than to go down there ourselves and see where the beast lives. John, a moment outside, if you please. Henry, do excuse us."

With a sigh, John followed Sherlock outside and stopped with him on the pathway. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"You seem cross."

"Asking this poor, traumatized man to go out to the place his father was brutally murdered is a bit much. He's clearly suffering from post traumatic stress and I don't think this is helping his mental state."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, John, but we're not here on his mental state. We're here to solve a crime," Sherlock bit.

"A little compassion for him would be nice."

"That's your area, not mine," Sherlock said. "I think maybe you should spend some time with Henry... alone. Get to know him, see if there's anything there between the two of you."

John's face grew hot. "Sherlock, I'm not interested in getting to know him. There isn't anything between the two of us."

Sherlock took John suddenly by the shoulders. "There's no harm in exploring what else is out there, John. Attaching yourself to me, suffering, there's no point in it."

John shook Sherlock off and stepped back. "Enough. I'll do what I need to do to get information, to solve this case, and to go home. Sherlock, if you want to be rid of me, be rid of me, but enough with these games. I'm not interested in anyone else." With that, John turned, thrust his cane angrily in front of him and went back inside.

He paused just in the door, waiting to hear if Sherlock was going to follow him, but the doorway remained silent. With a heavy sigh, John turned and attempted to find his way back into the kitchen, but found himself almost instantly lost.

"Bugger," he swore, as he bumped into what he discovered was a rather large sofa.

"Lost?" came Henry's timid voice. He hesitantly put his hand on John's arm, and John oriented himself.

"Your house is massive, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Rich?"

"Bit," Henry said with a laugh. "Tea?"

"I'd love some, and I hate to be a bother, but a sandwich would do me quite nicely right about now."

With his arm on Henry's, they went back into the kitchen and John resumed his seat at the counter.

"Has he gone? Sherlock?" Henry asked as he ambled about, fixing John a rather large, intricate ham and turkey sandwich.

"I believe so," John said, rubbing his face with his hands. "Off to inspect some lead or another."

"Is he always like this? Cross and rude?"

John snorted. "No. Sometimes he's downright impossible to be around. This is quite kind for him."

"How do you stand it?" Henry pushed the plate in front of John and then saw after the tea. "I'm sorry... that question was rude."

John sighed through a mouthful of food, swallowed, and then said, "It's fine. It's honest, and I can't get angry at honesty. Sometimes I don't know how I stand it. Sometimes I wonder what I'm still doing there after all this time, all this work, when he treats me like I'm expendable."

"You're not expendable," Henry said softly. "I think it's obvious I'm rubbish at chatting you up, so I figure I should just tell you that I am. Normally I wouldn't think to even talk to someone like you, Dr Watson, but you've been really kind to me, and... and I find it rubbish the way he treats you."

John offered Henry a quiet smile. "I appreciate that. It's always good to hear you're worth more than people treat you. Fact is, Henry, I'm utterly and unavoidably devoted to that man, however impossible he is, however much he may not want me around."

"Someday I hope he attempts to deserve you," Henry said. He pressed a cup of blessedly hot tea into John's hands, letting his fingers linger on top of John's knuckles. "And if you ever change your mind... well I mean... you know where I live and all."

John sipped the tea and didn't comment that Henry's fingers still lingered on his. Eventually Henry pulled away and John learned that Henry was a rather smart person, well educated, rich, and terrified of nearly everything in the outside world.

He felt bad for Henry, and wished there was something more he could do for him. As Henry talked, his stutter easing the more comfortable he felt with John, John found himself wondering what it might have been like if John had never met Sherlock. If he'd just ambled along in life and met some poor sod like Henry who needed a good taking care of. Who wanted someone like John around, someone devoted and adoring and loyal to a fault.

Shaking his head, John directed the conversation to Henry's past and they talked more about Henry's father and what life had been like before the incident. John was more and more convinced that the visions of the Hound were simply hallucinations brought on by trauma, and he hoped that perhaps exploring later that night would prove such a thing.

A few hours in, John was getting restless. He was outside in Henry's massive garden, repeatedly dialing Sherlock until, after the fifteenth call, Sherlock finally answered.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock answered, sounding extremely irritated.

"Listen, I've talked to Henry and got as much out of him as I can, so if you'd like to come and pick me up now, we can move on."

"I'll be there after dark," Sherlock said shortly.

John gave a surprised cough. "After dark?" He touched the top of his Braille watch and saw it was only past noon. "Sherlock, that's hours away."

"I'm sure Henry is making you comfortable," Sherlock replied.

"This isn't funny anymore."

"It's not meant to be. I'm directly in the middle of something, John. I will see you after dark."

"Why are you punishing me?" John's voice was tense, angry, the words blurted out and desperate to get Sherlock's attention.

There was a pause so long that John thought Sherlock might have rung off. "Punish you, John? Punish you?"

"Obviously, for some reason, you're trying to hurt me, and I'm trying to understand why," John bit out.

"My intent is not to punish you. We will have to talk, but not now."

"Fine," John snapped. "I suppose I'll see you tonight."

"Keep comfortable and remain where I can find you," Sherlock said and then rang off.

With a sigh, John shoved his phone into his pocket and plopped down on the grass where he was standing. He wrapped his arms around his crooked knees and sat there until he heard Henry step outside and settle down in the grass a few paces away from him.

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

"No," John said, "I am. I'm sorry we brought our problems into this case, and I'm sorry I'm not being more professional."

There was a shuffle in the grass, and after a moment, Henry's cold hand wrapped around John's. "I'm a mess, Dr Watson. I'm suffering from hallucinations and panic attacks, I'm rich but I can't work, I'm terrified of strangers and anything outside of my little yard. So a lover's quarrel doesn't offend me, and I don't find you unprofessional. I find you human, and I'm hopelessly infatuated with you, despite only knowing you a few hours, and I'm willing to sit here and be a shoulder for you to lean on while your husband doesn't deserve you, yet wins you in the end."

John found himself, yet again, surprised by the mind of Henry Knight, and wondered if maybe, with enough therapy, he could be cured and live a happy, successful life. John didn't pull his hand away this time, and for quite some time, the pair sat there in the grass, feeling the cool wind on their faces, and sun on their shoulders, and they waited for dark.

By the time Sherlock arrived, John had eaten dinner with Henry, and had gotten to know him quite well. This Henry, oddly, seemed much calmer and more relaxed with John, and had John not seen him a shaking, quivering mess, he wouldn't have known a thing was wrong with him.

Then, however, Sherlock showed up and piled them all into the car and they were off to the moor. As they drove, John could feel the tension inside of the car, and reached back along the door for Henry's knee. His hand was met with Henry's, grabbing onto him tightly, his palm clammy and fingers trembling.

John wanted to offer words of comfort, but at this moment John felt the words would be mocked by Sherlock aloud, and undo any progress John had made with Henry that day. They reached the edge of the moor and Sherlock switched the car off.

"I want you to take me straight into Dewar's Hollow," Sherlock commanded as John shut his door and flicked his cane out in front of him.

"Yes... yes a-alright," Henry stuttered. He moved to stay back, waiting for John, but Sherlock grabbed him and shoved him forward.

John, lagging behind, was soon lost from the pair, coming into contact with more trees, and he'd lost the path some time ago. With a frustrated growl, he whispered for Sherlock, but knowing it wasn't safe to raise his voice, wasn't heard and was met with silence.

He finally hunkered down by a tree and put his cane next to him. Closing his eyes, he strained his ears, desperate for a sound, some direction to orient him to Sherlock and Henry's location. John wasn't sure how much time had passed before he heard the noise, a padding sort of noise, the same that Loki made when running through the grass outside.

Hound.

John felt panicked. He rose, gripping his cane tightly, his free hand slightly in front of him, prepared to run if necessary. The padding noise faded into the distance, and a moment later, John heard a cry.

He began a swift, near-run in the direction of the cries, and though he stumbled through trees and over rock, nearly landing face first down a small embankment, a few moments later, he came into contact with the warm body of Sherlock Holmes.

"He saw it!" Henry cried. "It was there!"

Sherlock grabbed John's coat sleeve and pulled him up the embankment, onto the path and straight for the car. John, as he stumbled along, could hear Henry ambling after them, breathing heavy and panicked.

"You saw it, Mr Holmes, didn't you?"

"I didn't see anything," Sherlock snapped as they passed the car and began to trek straight for town. John, disoriented and confused, pulled his arm away from Sherlock.

"What did you see? I heard a noise, Sherlock, like an animal-"

"I saw nothing," Sherlock hissed back. "Take this boy home and meet me in the pub."

Henry was physically shoved at John, and Sherlock hurried away, the soft clicking of his heels telling John he had gone straight for the pub. With a sigh, John took Henry by the shoulders, feeling the younger man trembling beneath his coat.

"It was there, Dr Watson, I swear it!" His voice was rich with panic, trembling and rough.

"Call me John, please," John insisted. He took Henry's arm in his and slipped his cane into his pocket. "Are you well enough to take me to your home without letting me break my neck?" John was perfectly capable of navigating on his own, but he wanted to give the terrified man something to focus on.

"I um... I think... I think so," Henry stuttered out. He put his hand over John's and started forward, keeping his pace slow, deliberate and verbally warning John whenever something was too near them.

Before long, they had stepped inside of Henry's home, and Henry collapsed on the sofa, clammy and sweating and shaking almost violently, as though he was suffering from a terrible fever. John reached into his pocket and pulled out a pill bottle full of a sleep aid, something he never left home without.

He went into the kitchen and fetched a small glass of water and went back into the lounge where Henry was still laying on the sofa. John took Henry's hand and pressed the pill into the center of his palm. "Take this, it will help you sleep."

Henry swallowed the pill, declining water, and when John started to pull his hand away, Henry caught him by the sleeve. "Don't. Please. Don't go. I don't... I can't... don't leave me alone."

"I'm not going anywhere," John assured him. He detached his arm from Henry's grasp, set the water down on the table and sat on the sofa near Henry's knees. He took Henry's shoes off and pressed a spot near Henry's ankle, a pressure point, he remembered, that had a calming effect.

Henry settled down after a bit, the tremors continuing intermittently, but his racing pulse had slowed, and his breathing steadied out. "Thank you," he muttered, his words slurred from the sleeping pill.

John smiled. "You're most welcome. If you don't mind, I'd like to get you into bed before that pill takes full effect. It's strong, and you don't want to wake up sore from passing out on the sofa."

"You want to get me into bed?" Henry asked coyly, a little sleepy and silly from the medication.

"Perhaps not tonight, I'm afraid," John said. He helped Henry up from the sofa and let the younger man lead the way to the bedroom. "Feel free to change, my blindness promotes modesty in these situations."

"I wouldn't mind it if you could see me, you know," Henry said. He dropped his clothes to the floor, lazily pulled on a pair of boxers and climbed onto his overly large bed.

John stood beside the bed for a moment, and didn't protest when Henry reached out and took his hand. "You should sleep well tonight."

"Thank you," Henry said again, his voice even groggier than it had been moments before. "I'm so... tired."

"I'm going to the pub now, to see Sherlock, and discuss what happened. I promise we'll come back in the morning and chat, okay?"

"Goodnight kiss?" Henry asked.

John chuckled, and then bent down, kissing Henry on the forehead. "If for some reason you wake up and something is wrong, ring me. Otherwise, try and sleep."

"Tell him he doesn't deserve you, that man. That tall, beautiful man, who should only be so lucky to have a person even more beautiful than he is. If he won't have you, come back here. Please."

John felt his face heat up, and for a moment he considered just staying with Henry right then. But of course, that was not an option, because as flattered as he was, as painfully lonely and terrified that Sherlock was shot of him, John loved that curly-haired sod waiting for him in the pub.

He hesitated until he heard Henry's breathing, slow and even, signaling that he'd fallen asleep. John remembered the way back to the pub with surprising ease for a town he'd just arrived in, and after calling Sherlock's name, he was directed to a pair of chairs near the fire.

"He's not in great shape, Henry," John said as he ordered a glass of wine from the barkeep. "I've given him something to help him sleep, but whatever it was that he saw, whatever he thought you saw, it's given him a good scare."

There was silence as John spoke, thick and heavy and after a moment, Sherlock bit out, "I saw it."

"Saw what?" John asked, afraid of the answer.

"The Hound," Sherlock spat, angry, his voice trembling. "My God, John, if you could see me now, you'd see me afraid. Me. Sherlock Holmes, trembling fingers, forehead sweating. Emotions running through me. I spend so much time keeping myself divorced from emotions, from the weakness they bring yet now my body betrays me." John could hear Sherlock lift something and pour it into a glass.

"Are you drinking?" John demanded. Sherlock never, ever drank. Ever. And John was starting to be a little afraid now. "Sherlock?"

"Let it go, John. I'm fine."

"Clearly you're not fine, Sherlock. You and I both know perfectly well there is no monster Hound in those woods, and you telling me you're scared has me a bit frightened. And you're drinking?"

Sherlock reached out and grabbed John by the front of his shirt. "I'm perfectly fine. You want me to prove it? Shall I tell you how you felt this afternoon when Henry held your hand? Oh, how did I know? There are threads missing from your cuff, John, and Henry, a rich boy, and very particular about his skin, uses a coconut oil lotion only sold in New Zealand, which he has shipped special, and the finger marks have stained your sleeve. But Sherlock," he said, mocking John's voice, "how could you possibly know how I feel when Henry touches me? Well John, it's simple. Every time I mention his name, your body temperature rises and your pulse speeds up by three beats per minute, signaling that you're stressed, but also interested in him. So you see, John, not only was I right about Henry, but I'm also perfectly fine, so leave me alone!" With that, Sherlock threw John's arm back at him, hard, and sat back with an audible thud.

John listened to Sherlock refill his glass twice before he spoke again. "Right. The great Sherlock Holmes is always right. Ever think about taking my pulse when you mention how much I love you? Ever bother to think about why I'm here, sitting with you, in this pub, bloody worried about you? Ever wonder why I'm with you even though I could have a young thing like Henry Knight? No, you don't. It doesn't matter to Sherlock Holmes, because my emotions are, as you put, a weakness. So don't trust me. I'm just your lover, and your best friend."

"Friend? I don't have friends," Sherlock spat.

The verbal knife Sherlock had stabbed into John had just been shoved in to the hilt and John took a moment to catch his breath before he finally rose, took his cane carefully in hand and said, "You're right. Good night, Sherlock."

With that, he left. With no where to go, John went back to Henry's house, let himself in, and fell into a fitful sleep on the sofa, wondering why he was there, and if they were going to make it back home in one piece.

John woke to the rich smell of coffee, and the sound of Henry in the kitchen making breakfast. Rubbing his eyes and trying to stretch out his stiff muscles, John went to find the man he'd forcibly made host his presence with every intent to apologize.

"Smells wonderful," John said as Henry passed him a cup of black coffee.

"You could have slept in the bed," Henry said quietly.

"I apologize for returning uninvited," John said by way of response. "I should have woken you, or phoned or something."

"You weren't uninvited," Henry said. "I take it the pub didn't go well."

"Something shook him up, and I'm not sure what, but I'm also not sure I'll be around to help him figure it out."

"I'm sorry," Henry said softly.

The two men were interrupted by a near frantic knocking at the door. John instantly recognized the sound of Sherlock when Sherlock had come to a particularly large idea, and John was just not ready to face him at the moment. He wasn't in a place where he could hear the eccentric ramblings of his would-be lover, acting as though he hadn't just been given the boot the night before.

John picked up his coffee as Henry went to answer the door, and he went outside. He found a low wall and sat down, pulling out his phone to listen to his emails, trying to pretend like he couldn't hear Sherlock's frantic questioning of poor Henry.

Nothing good was in the email, but the pleasant sound of the woman reading aloud the sales offers from Tescos was far more pleasant, and when the voice tapered off, the sound of Sherlock had finally stopped.

John breathed a sigh of relief that only lasted a moment before he heard footsteps near Henry's back door. "John," Sherlock said.

Without any idea where he might go, but knowing he had to get out of there, John rose and started to walk forward in the grass. Sherlock, however, had other plans, and rushed to face John, taking him by the shoulders as he often did when he was forcing John to listen to whatever it was he had to say.

"Please, John," Sherlock said.

Rolling his eyes, John gave a sigh, bent down to set his rapidly cooling mug of coffee on the ground, and faced the detective. "What is it?"

"Did you um... did you sleep well?" Sherlock asked.

John wanted to slap the man in frustration. "Not really, no. Did you expect me to?"

"Did you get anywhere last night?"

"No."

"Did you find out any information?" Sherlock asked, alluding to the first question being about sex, which, John reasoned, was a feeble attempt at a joke.

"Oh you're being funny now, are you?"

Sherlock sighed and released John's shoulders. "Trying to break the ice."

"It doesn't suit you. I'd stick to ice. Now, if you haven't anything relevant to say, I'm going to be off."

"I've got a break in the case, John!" Sherlock said. He took a step back from John, giving him some space, and the choice to walk away if John wanted.

"Good for you. Have fun with that," John said and started to move off.

"Look I um... this isn't easy for me," Sherlock said.

John rounded on Sherlock, pressing a finger to the center of Sherlock's chest. "This isn't easy for you? What, exactly, isn't easy, Sherlock? You made it quite clear how you felt last night, and it didn't appear to pain you at all. This entire trip, in fact, has seemed quite easy for you to let me know that I'm absolutely dedicated to a man who can, but refuses to love me back. So pray tell, Sherlock, what has been difficult for you?"

Sherlock backed away from John's pressing finger, but as John dropped his hand, Sherlock caught it in his own, long fingers. "It isn't easy for me, for a mind like mine, to admit when you're right. It's foreign for me, John, to accept when I do feel guilty, and to admit that when it's being thrown in my face. Apologizing has never been my forte, so even now I'm struggling with the words. But there it is, John, and you were right, and I do feel guilty and I am sorry." The last three words were muttered, slurred together so they were barely understandable, but John heard them.

"So what the hell was last night about, exactly?"

"That's just it!" Sherlock exclaimed, his voice growing excited, his grip on John's hand getting tighter. "I was drugged. Obviously I would have never behaved in such a manner normally, so somehow I was drugged, which I suspect is why poor little Henry here is such a bleeding mess most of his days, and why he hallucinates a massive Hound."

"Drugged?" John asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

"Yes!" Sherlock said excitedly. "You and I both know there isn't a monster Hound roaming the woods, and yet I saw it. As blind as you are, John, I know you would have seen it. It was massive, red eyes, the jaws bigger than your head. It was bloody glowing, John, and absolutely terrifying. I was drugged, and the only questions now are who has done this, and for what purpose."

"And you have some idea of this?"

John could practically hear the grin on Sherlock's face. "We've got to get back to Baskerville."

Before they left, Sherlock made John a cup of coffee, with sugar, which John never took in his coffee but he drank it all the same in order to show Sherlock he was accepting his apology. Henry downright refused to return to Baskerville, instead calling up his therapist and asking for a session.

John finished up his drink as quickly as he could, and while he was doing that, Sherlock phoned Mycroft who promptly arranged all the necessary to-do's to get Sherlock the access he needed at Baskerville.

"Are we good, Sherlock?" John asked as they drove along the bumpy road towards the facility.

There was a long moment of silence before Sherlock answered. "I don't like living my days seething with guilt, John."

"You feeling guilty is your own fault, Sherlock," John pointed out. "I've never thought you were going to be any different than you are. While it took some getting used to in the beginning, I've moved on from it. Yes, when you get in your moods I get lonely. Sometimes I don't get the affection I crave, but I always get the affection I need. And for me, in the end, knowing that you're coming home to me at night is all I need to get through the day. I'm in this for good, Sherlock, I'm with you for exactly who you are, and I don't have any intentions of replacing you with some poor, suffering kid."

Sherlock didn't answer, but he did reach over and squeeze the tender space between John's neck and shoulder, something John absolutely loved. They made it to Baskerville a few moments later, game-faces on, and with the proper clearance now, they went inside.

Sherlock spoke rapidly, angrily, with the Captain and a few other people, and before long, they were standing in front of a large lab. "Go in there please, John. I need ears more than eyes. I just want you to explore, tell me if you hear or smell anything out of the ordinary."

John almost never knew what Sherlock meant by 'out of the ordinary' but he could usually pick up a clue or two that helped the case, so John agreed. He was given his own access ID, and went into the lab.

It was quiet, empty, large, with several tables and a very intense echo. His hands trailed over empty cages covered in sheets, and microscopes which John knew instantly at their touch for all of the lab experiments in their own home he was constantly running into.

Eventually, John came to a door and went inside. The air inside was very wet, steamy, and had a very pungent smell, almost of rotted almonds. The room was small, a desk sat in the corner covered in things John could not recognize by touch. There was a glass wall, which John could only guess what they kept behind it, and after finding nothing, John went back into the room.

He started back towards the door when suddenly an impossibly bright light flared up in his vision. It was the most light he'd seen since the accident, and he covered his eyes. "God," he gasped, and fumbled towards the door.

It was then that the noise started, a loud, blaring, impossible noise, and he gasped, fumbling with the car, swiping it, but the door remained locked. "NO!" John said. The noise was still blaring, the lights still impossibly bright.

With trembling fingers, John tried the door again, but the access card seemed to not work to get him out. Just when he began to panic, the noise suddenly stopped and the lights went out. He was more blind than ever now, his eyes slightly traumatized by being exposed to something to bright, and his ears were ringing so loudly he could barely hear his own footsteps.

Just as he started to calm, it began. The noise, the footsteps that he'd heard in the woods. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, the growling began. John felt his heart leap violently into his throat, and he began to stumble around the room, desperate for a place to hide.

He found an empty cage covered in a sheet, and he crawled inside, grasping for his phone and dialing Sherlock. "Get me out of here," he whispered in a voice so low he wasn't sure Sherlock could hear him

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the lab, the one you asked me to go in. It's here. The Hound is here. Get me out, Sherlock."

"I'll be right there, John. Just keep talking."

The growling grew louder, the footsteps. John's fingers trembled as he grasped the phone. "I can't keep talking. It'll hear me. Come find me. Please, Sherlock."

It was then, that in his blindness, John saw it. Just through the break in the sheet, John saw the glowing eyes, the massive jaws, the glowing fur. He screamed aloud when the sheet was pulled back, but nearly vomited with relief when a warm hand closed over his. It was Sherlock.

"It's here, it was here, we need to run!" John blurted.

"No we're fine, John, we're fine," Sherlock said. Sherlock held John's trembling body close to his as he pulled him out of the lab and back into the hall.

The rest of the tour was a bit of a blur for John, who didn't quite come to his senses until he found himself in a room, Sherlock grilling a lab worker over a glowing rabbit that John vaguely remembered from a case a little girl had sent earlier that week.

"It's in the sugar," Sherlock said quietly. "It has to be, it's... just doesn't make any other sense. They've been drugging Henry... but why." Sherlock suddenly stood up. "Get out. Both of you. I need to go to my Mind Palace."

Still wobbly and a little confused, John went outside with the doctor and waited, his back pressed against the wall. Lestrade had once given John a description of Sherlock's Mind Palace, which John thought was hilarious, but had come to find it rather endearing.

He could only hope, though, that it wouldn't take long. John was feeling ill, his adrenaline was still pumping, his ears still ringing, and frankly, he felt afraid.

Sherlock didn't take long at all, and eventually the pair found themselves in the car after Sherlock had gathered the information he needed.

"Have you solved it?" John asked after they pulled into town.

"I have, but there's a question I need answered," Sherlock said. He offered John his arm, who happily took it, and Sherlock led the way into the pub. The barkeep, the rather nice man from the first day John had arrived in town, sounded a little nervous as he said hello.

"The other day I saw a receipt for a meat delivery," Sherlock declared. "I thought it odd, seeing as you are a vegetarian restaurant. Now, you can tell me everything, or I can expose you."

The chef came out, and the couple eventually explained that they had bought a dog, large and vicious, to feed the rumors of the Hound, but they had to put it down. Sherlock listened to the story, accepted it, and they walked out.

"So now what?" John asked.

The now what ended the evening with them in the moor. Henry had suffered an episode, attempted to shoot his therapist, and John, panicked, insisted that they follow him. The distraught man had run into the moor, and the pair followed him out there.

Out of his element and unable to fully navigate, John did his best to try and find Henry, which they did, kneeling in the middle of the hollow, sobbing.

"This fog," Sherlock muttered.

It was then, suddenly, that John noticed something about the fog. It was the smell of it, thick, wet, like rotted almonds. "Sherlock..." John said quietly. "The fog..." John started to feel light headed again. He was kneeling next to Henry, holding his arm. "Henry, come on, we've got to get you out of here."

Henry gave a growl, which was echoed then, suddenly, by something in the trees. "Oh God, it's here!" Henry cried, throwing his hands over his face and scrambling back away from John.

"Sherlock, where are you?" John shouted.

Sherlock was at John's side for only a moment, before he walked off, and then John heard him call, "It's the fog! Cover your face, don't breathe it in!"

It was chaos from there on out, and the rustling sound of the dog rushing forward, and then Sherlock pressed a gun into John's hand. John heard a scuffle and then the muffled cry of, "Shoot it!"

John turned, listened for the sound, aimed the gun, prayed a moment that no human being was in the way, and he fired. Once. Twice. The growling stopped, a body hit the ground with a thud, and then Henry gave a whimper somewhere off to John's right.

John could hear Sherlock struggling with someone, holding someone down, yelling at him that he had done it. Something about Hound, an experiment, and Henry. The fog was still thick and frightening and making them all ill with the effects of the drugs.

Eventually Sherlock had the person subdued, and by the time they made it out of the moor, John learned the stranger was Dr Franklyn, and he'd been responsible for keeping Henry drugged. The four of them made it to the car before it happened.

Sherlock stiffened, and then hit the ground next to John's feet. Panicked, John bent down, but Sherlock struggled up, knocking John to the side. There was another scuffle and then, after several moments of silence, an explosion.

"What?!" John shouted.

"Mine field," Henry muttered, still trembling next to John. "He... he forgot about the mine field."

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked John quietly, touching his hand.

John nodded. "We're all drugged right now, we need to get somewhere safe, and I need to know the mixture of what we've all been fed to know the long term effects."

"I've uploaded everything into my laptop at home, but I suspect we'll all be fine," Sherlock said, sounding subdued.

Eventually Henry was put back at home, after John gave him another sedative, and the pair from London went back to their room to wait out the effects of the drug. Neither one of them said much, sitting quietly, Sherlock at the window, John laying on his back on the bed.

After several hours, John's body seemed to normalize, and the moment that happened, he lost consciousness. He woke sometime in the morning, his watch telling him it was past ten, and he sat up, rubbing his eyes, feeling a lot like he was suffering a severe hang over.

"Sherlock?" John called, but was met with silence. He rose, mucked through the case and found a clean pair of jeans and a jumper to throw on. He desperately wanted a shower, but was more desperate to get back to London now that the case had been solved.

John went to the barkeep and ordered a hearty breakfast, which he took outside and sat on a bench, the morning cool, quiet and comfortable. Sherlock joined him soon after he'd tucked in to the food, his manner quiet and relaxed.

"Sleep well?"

John swallowed a mouthful of food and washed it down with his black, bitter coffee. "Not as well as I would have hoped, considering I have a massive amount of unknown drugs coursing through my system, but the food is helping."

"I've just returned from Baskerville. Mycroft has sent in men, they're taking care of the situation. Henry will be sent on holiday for recovery. As far as I can see from the documents, none of us, including Henry, should suffer any ill effects from the drug."

"Good to hear," John said, and was surprised at how much of a relief that actually was. "So it was in the fog? The drug?"

"Indeed."

"You thought it was in the sugar," John said, and then something suddenly dawned on him. "The... the sugar. You thought it was in Henry's sugar. You gave me coffee with sugar! Sherlock!"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "It was a simple, controlled experiment, John. Perfectly safe, and honestly, no harm came if it, did it?"

John threw down his fork and turned, his eyes narrow. "You can't experiment on me, you twat! You can't drug me. Damn it, Sherlock, I was bloody terrified!"

"You're fine now, aren't you?" Sherlock pointed out. "And look, all's well between us, and we can go home now."

John rolled his eyes. "But it wasn't in the sugar, was it. You were wrong."

"That's inconsequential."

"No, it's not," John snapped. "It's very consequential. You, Sherlock Holmes, were wrong." He drew out the word 'wrong' long and slow, pointedly.

"Yes well, it won't happen again," Sherlock muttered.

Sherlock started to rise, but John caught his arm, pulled him back down and kissed him hard on the mouth. "You're a twat, you know that? A complete and total git, and I hate you so much sometimes."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably under John's affections, but didn't pull away. "Indeed."

"But I love you too, God help me," John whispered and kissed him again. He reached up and caressed the side of Sherlock's face with his thumb. "No more of this, do you understand me? No more of this you deserve better rubbish. It's you and me, and that's that. Swear it."

Sherlock hesitated, taking John's hand from his face and holding it tightly in his own. After a minute he said, "I swear it, John. And I apologize for what I've put you through." He cleared his throat and rose slowly this time, letting John's hand drop gently to the table. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to see a man about a dog."

John found it odd that Sherlock would want to break the news to the kindly pub couple, but it became clear after Sherlock got up, when Henry sat down next to John.

"I owe you both so much," Henry said quietly.

"Don't think anything of it," John said. He pushed his plate away and turned to face Henry. "Honestly, you deserve it for everything you've been put through these long years."

"It feels so strange, knowing the truth. Knowing about my father, about H.O.U.N.D. and about Dr Franklyn. I feel so angry and betrayed, but so relieved."

"I hear you're going away on holiday," John said, trying to lighten the subject. "Where to?"

"France, I think," Henry said. "Somewhere I can deal with the trauma and heal, but far away from here. I'll come back eventually." Henry paused and then said, "Would you like to come?"

"As flattering as that is, I'm afraid I belong here," John said.

Henry chuckled. "I know. It was a half-joke, really. I didn't understand what you saw in him, but seeing you together... it all sort of makes sense."

John nodded and reached out, pulling Henry into a hug. "You'll find yours, hopefully one less irritating and impossible than mine is. You're young, gorgeous, and you're such a good guy. Anyone would be lucky to have you. If I wasn't so mad, I'd be more than tempted by your offer."

"You can't say I'm gorgeous," Henry muttered quietly. "You can't see that."

"I don't need to," John said. He rose from the table and leaned down to press a kiss to the top of Henry's head. "You'll learn that, too, eventually." And he meant it. He didn't need to see Sherlock to know he was gorgeous, to know he was lucky, as trying as that lucky might have felt sometimes. He was happy, and he was home with Sherlock, and as he slipped his hand into his lover's and they headed back to their car, bound for London, John realized that underneath it all, he was happy.


End file.
